


Befriend

by theLiterator



Series: Zevran/Alistair 'verse [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-13
Updated: 2010-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair treats Zevran like an abused puppy, then saves his life. Zevran treats Alistair like an idiot, then gets Wynne to save his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Befriend

Alistair remembered, once, at Redcliffe, when one of the trainers had been dismissed. The pup he'd been responsible for had turned fearful, feral, and one of the other trainers had suggested Alistair look after him.

"He's just a boy still, there's no reason for the pup to fear him."

And there shouldn't have been, no. But the pup had cowered from Alistair, whining pitifully, and wouldn't take food from his hand or abide being touched. He'd tried to rub its ears, like he knew the hounds liked, and it had bitten him bloody. He had a tiny white scar on his knuckle as witness to the occasion.

The poor thing had to be put out of its misery, and Alistair had cried and screamed at them not to do it, to give him another try.

  
He'd realized, after several days travel with the would-be-assassin, that Zevran reminded him of that pup. The way he'd barely taste the food he was given, the way he'd flinch away from unexpected claps on the back. The way he always seemed to be cornered, even in the middle of an open field, eyes darting every which way in search of escape.

He grabbed two bowls of the venison stew, making sure to crunch rocks under his boots and generally announced his presence.

"Hungry?" he asked when the elf looked up. Alistair wasn't generally in the business of waiting on elves, but this was his comrade in arms, for the most part. And Zevran always seemed a hairsbreadth from fleeing. He wanted to be sure that Zevran wouldn't flee, not when it mattered most.

Zevran looked up at him, eyes flat, face expressionless. "Not particularly."

"You should eat anyway," Alistair said before settling on the ground next to him. He didn't miss the way Zevran shifted and pulled his knees to his chest defensively.

Alistair set the second bowl of stew gently on the ground within Zevran's reach before diving into his, tin spoon scraping the metal bowl loudly.

He didn't speak, just sat and ate. After a few moments, Zevran sighed heavily, collected his bowl, and started to eat too.

Alistair glanced at him from the corner of his eye, noticed that Zevran's posture was no more relaxed than before, the hand holding the bowl wrapped tightly around his knees, his head ducked low, hair shielding his face from view.

"Good, isn't it?" Alistair asked conversationally, after a while. "Leliana does know what she's doing with her spices after all. And she shot the deer."

Zevran said nothing; after all, he had witnessed the spectacular shot, had been the first to congratulate Leliana with a leer and a suggestive remark.

Alistair hummed to himself, then inched closer to Zevran. The elf looked up at him, startled, and dropped his spoon in favor of one of the wicked daggers from his belt, draped over a stone on his other side.

"Wow, you're fast!" Alistair said with a chuckle. "I guess it's pure luck that we managed to survive your ambush after all." Zevran snorted.

"Or design, my good Warden," he said quietly.

"Design? Your plan then? Or the Maker's?"

Zevran shook his head, refocusing his attention on the stew in his hands. Alistair silently handed over his own spoon. Zevran accepted it with a grave sort of dignity, and Alistair counted it as a 'win'.

After four more days, Denerim loomed near, and Alistair persisted in his attentions.

Zevran beat him to the punch, this evening, sick of being carefully groomed to accept Alistair's company. He knew what Alistair wanted, what they all wanted. It was easy enough to determine. Money, power, sex. Not all of these things could he secure for those around him, but enough...

"My dear Warden," he said, settling against a fallen, rotting tree and smiling at the startled look on Alistair's face. Alistair picked up the bowl Zevran had set before him, grimacing at the flavorless porridge it contained, but scarfing it down anyway. Zevran thought he would never get used to the appetites of the Grey Wardens, the way they could eat enough for two men apiece and still have stomachs growling for more.

It was both endearing and terrifying. Enough to ram home the fact that they were _other,_ at least.

"Hmm?" Alistair managed after the initial burst of hunger had been appeased, finally looking up from the bowl.

"What is it, exactly, that you want from me?" Zevran said, examining his fingernails in feigned boredom. "I tire of your game."

"Game?" Alistair asked around a mouthful of porridge. He swallowed, then continued. "What makes you think it's a game?"

"Every meal, you sit just that much closer—bribing me with food and light conversation. I've decided I don't care to play along anymore." Zevran ran a hand through his hair in frustration, though he was careful to keep his face blank.

Alistair opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"I will give you whatever it is you think you must trick from me, but after, you will leave me alone," Zevran said.

"What?" Alistair asked, voice cracking. Zevran opened his mouth to respond, but Alistair held up an imperious hand. Zevran waited, quiet and still through years of practice. "I don't have any idea what you're implying, Zevran, but I can assure you that it is completely mistaken."

Zevran glared at him, disgust rising up like bile, and all he could say was "Of course not," with as little sarcasm in his voice as possible, because he is here on the sufferance of the Wardens, and if one wishes to play _games_ with him, he is obliged to oblige him.

But Alistair didn't seem to sense his capitulation, instead leaning close with an earnest expression, half-eaten porridge set aside. "I just wanted to get to know you. My fellow Warden seems to think you might be helpful to have around, and told me outright to make nice. That's what I am doing. Making nice. If you don't believe me, you can feel free to ask."

The intensity of his denial was startling to Zevran, who couldn't even _think_ under that unrelenting stare. He ducked his head, breaking eye contact, but didn't leave. Alistair would simply follow him, he was sure. And if part of the game is to pretend that no game exists, well, he could do that. He could.

  
The next morning, Alistair deliberately sought out Zevran, and to hell with the usual marching order. He could practically feel Leliana perking her ears in anticipation of juicy gossip, but found he just didn't care.

Zevran had been so odd, and Alistair had spent a lot more time thinking last night than he liked.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. Zevran nodded, carefully tucking the ends of his braids into his hair, and Alistair smirked a little at the care taken with his hair. He ran a hand through his own. "You know, you wouldn't have so many problems if you kept it short, you know."

Zevran nodded again. "It is my hair though, to do with as I please, is it not?" The question seemed loaded, and was definitely a challenge. Alistair frowned.

"Of course it is," he said. "I just meant... on the road it's harder to fuss over things like that. And we're going to be on the road a lot. I don't know if you've ever been on the road like this for a long time."

"I have not." Zevran responded coldly.

"Oh. Well—" Alistair was saved from trying to form a response by the indefinable sensation that heralded Darkspawn on their trail.

"Down," he shouted, shoving Zevran to the side just as an archer on the ridge above them loosed an arrow towards them. It thudded uselessly against his plate armor. Leliana had already strung her bow to return fire. Alistair turned to assess the situation, instinct taking over.

One of their mages smiled evilly at him, and he dove towards it, shield leading, in hopes of distracting it from its spell. He failed, felt the overwhelming pressure of the spell surround him, and cried out involuntarily. He was helpless to attack the mage, and knew the spell would only end with one of their death. He tried vainly to draw breath enough to call for help.

Then he saw Zevran, appearing as if out of thin air behind the mage to slide a blade in its back. It took an eternity for the creature to die, for its spell to dissipate.

As soon as it no longer held him up, Alistair fell to his knees, still unable to breathe. He coughed, tried to force air into his lungs.

"Stop that," Zevran commanded from right next to him. He continued, muttering under his breath, the words indecipherable to Alistair's ears.

"Is that Antivan?" he asked, voice a bare whisper.

"Yes. Now hush while I get your breastplate off."

"'S too heavy," Alistair protested. "Lemme..."

"You will hold still. Wynne is busy tending Morrigan's wounds, but she will be over momentarily. In the meantime, hush."

Alistair tried to help Zevran unbuckle his armor, but Zevran slapped his hands away. "Your ribs are broken. Hold still!" He continued muttering in Antivan, mixing in the occasional Fereldan curse when it suited.

"Now, Zevran, I do not appreciate being summoned so perfunctorily," Wynne scolded. Alistair tried to turn to see her, but Zevran grabbed him before he could get more than a bit twisted.

"Hold still, you idiot," he growled. "Or I'll have you whipped once the healer's done with you."

Wynne scoffed, "Well I—" her hand, cool and tiny and gentle and agonizingly painful pressed against Alistair's side and he spasmed away. Zevran held him still, stared into his eyes.

"Come now, just breathe. Ignore the healer, ignore the pain. The pain is nothing. Just breathe." His voice was soft and rhythmic, and Alistair found himself breathing shallowly in time to the words.

"This is... ugly," Wynne said.

Zevran shook his head. "I have seen worse," he said. "Come now, you can heal it, can't you?"

"I—of course."

Alistair shook his head. He knew what being healed felt like, like receiving the wounds all over again, and it still hurt so badly, he couldn't bear it.

Wynne ignored him, and Alistair cried out in pain as his ribs knit and his lungs healed. Zevran nodded at Wynne when she pulled back. "I will tell the Warden that you are nearly ready," she said. Alistair moaned.

"Come now, my dear Warden," Zevran said softly. "We must get you back into your armor. Denerim beckons."

Alistair nodded, accepting Zevran's assistance with no complaints. Denerim beckoned indeed.

***

As ever, comments are love.


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